


A Short for A Galaxy Wide and a Universe Tall

by AJGhostWolf



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22309234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJGhostWolf/pseuds/AJGhostWolf
Summary: A tortured Alien has been forcefully taken to Earth. He doesn't want to be there, but he's been found and he's suffering for it, at the hands of multiple parties. Mostly just an idea that I had that I've been enjoying for a few months now. Have fun!





	A Short for A Galaxy Wide and a Universe Tall

Chapter 1

“C’mon,” Ashley muttered gently, persuasively. “A hot meal, shower, nice change of clothing.  _ Freedom _ . Limited, sure, but anything’s better than that dog cage you’ve been in for the past, what? Months? Years? All you have to do is answer my question.” 

He leaned forward in his chair, metal just like everything else in the tiny interrogation room. 

For several moments nothing happened, no reaction in the head-hung figure across the table from him. The man’s— _ thing’s _ , Ashley chastised him-self—arms were totally limp on the table he was cuffed to. When it bec- ame clear that he was not interested in what he was being offered, the door was yanked open savagely. 

A shorter, military-award-adorned figure stalked in and slapped his open palm loudly on the table, glaring at first the prisoner and then Verdet. 

“Alright, good cop,” he sneered scornfully. “We tried it your way for two months. Now it’s my turn.” He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Get out.” 

Barney Ashley drummed his left hand fingers across the table for a moment and studied the newcomer, then sighed and stood. He glanced back once before he closed the door behind him. 

The newcomer—the card that dangled from his neck said Jimmy Verdet—sat his lean body in the chair slowly, bearing his weight on his knuckles as he eased down with a glare. 

He studied the hunched-over prisoner for a long minute precisely, then flipped open the manilla folder in front of him. On its opening page was a picture of the prisoner from several decades previous, animated and walking and with friends, unhurt. 

The pictures next to and under it were very different. 

Verdet slipped one from underneath its paperclip and studied it closer for a moment, his eyes calmly taking in the horror therein. He flipped it around after a second, and held it almost under the prisoner’s nose, making sure he saw it before exchanging it for another. And another. 

“You must come from good stock,” he slowly said, each word weighed with contempt and respect, “to have still even tried to fight my men off, despite being in this . . . . bloody condition.” 

He threw the last of the pictures on the table, and watched as the prisoner’s eyes went to it. 

The prisoner saw vacant eyes in the polaroid. A slack, bloodied face whose features were only barely recognized behind all of the bruising and swelling. Hair cut sloppily short, in some places so close his scalp has been torn into. The horribly battered body faintly curled up in the corner for protection. Animal instinct. 

The prisoner shifted imperceptibly back to the silver that was those blank eyes. 

Always the eyes. 

He wondered, rather airily, if they were that absent, now. 

Verdet suddenly snatched the picture back, putting it again in the folder. He selected another from the next page and showed it to the prisoner as well. 

White-gloved fingers holding up the grimy, bloody chin, having been sewn shut by thick metal wires that had been brutally shoved through skull and jaw bones and muscles and skin to lock his mouth closed, too tight to move at all without impossibly agonizing pain. 

One of the thin, cuffed hands twitched, as though the prisoner felt the need to touch his face where the deep scars still painfully remained. 

Verdet noticed. He noted it, formed likely plans, ways to bluff or threaten. He was not a government agent full of bureaucracy-crap, he was a real interrogator that could get anything, anywhere, anytime, any way. And he was proud of it. 

“Impressive,” Verdet said grimly, “to have lost so much blood—even assuming you have the same amount as a human—and still be able to put one of my finest agents on the ground in ten seconds.” He actually smiled; an unpleasant leer. “Well, maybe fifteen.” 

He plucked the polaroid off the table and stuffed it back under the clip. He scanned over the paper reports on the opposite page as though it was his first time reading it, despite it really being the dozenth. “The doctor that examined said you had, quote, ‘Forty-five percent blood loss and eighty -nine percent tissue damage, most of it recent by at least ten years.’” 

Verdet glanced up at the prisoner, who still hadn’t moved or reacted. “A human would not have survived such a thing, and the doctor goes on to say that he doubts you’ve missed death by much. 

“He also claims that your biological, physiological, and psychological makeup are strongly averse to water, electricity, certain metallic properties, and very sudden or excessive environmental change—even more than we humans are. And all of which, and more, you have evidently been tortured with, multiple times, until we found you abandoned here. Left to die.” His pale eyes got even sharper. “My only question . . . . is why?” 

Silence filled the air, and the prisoner didn’t move. 

Verdet waited for a long minute, then leaned forward and spoke quietly, with definite danger in his voice. “Now, Ashley may have treated you gently and with caked gloves for the past two months, but believe you me; I won’t. There was wisdom in being gentle for a while so you could replenish more of your blood and heal, but now, that doctor has told me that you’re more than ready for some more . . . . physical questioning that I am happy to initiate.” 

He beckoned his hand and three guards walked into the room, each holding a small stick only a foot long, with a button at the back and two metal prongs on the end. One of them also held a small pair of keys. Two put their arms heavily on the prisoner’s shoulders, holding his unresisting form down while the third unlocked the handcuffs from the table. He snapped them back on when the others had muscled the prisoner’s hands behind him. 

Picking him up by the elbows, they made him stand and face Verdet, who gestured at the pronged sticks. “Tasers. Electricity at fifty-thousand volts that’ll put you down faster than you can blink.” He gave a small, almost comical grin. “It was that doctor’s idea to use them, but to dial them down a touch so you don’t accidently get so hurt you won’t be able to recover. C’mon, let’s go.” 

The prisoner followed helplessly, not having to be held up by the guards any further than the end of the table, blood flowing painfully back into his numbed legs and bare feet. He limped and staggered and stumbled along behind Verdet as they wound through dimly lit hallways, an inch thick in dust and garbage-strewn, ever conscious of the tasers wielded by the guards behind him. 

For five minutes they walked, enough to begin making the prisoner’s legs ache and his lungs burn from the effort. His cold feet were quickly bleeding from the small shards of glass that littered the halls. 

They moved through a final door into a brightly lit small room that held only a machine, slightly sloping on the bottom with a control panel off to the side. 

Verdet turned and grabbed him by the shoulder, forcing him up closer to the machine’s track. 

“My staff all reasonably think that you’re part of some kind of advanced military service, so you probably have an idea of what this machine is. This is a modified treadmill, and you will be on it until you give me your name, numbers, and rank, where you come from. And the reason you’ve been repeatedly tortured half to death.” 

He shoved the prisoner onto the track, and the guards stepped up. Two stayed back at the end of the track, tasers at the ready, while the other remo- ved the prisoner’s cuffs and attached them to the treadmill. 

That one stepped back quickly and looped to the control panel, looking to Verdet. 

“Take it slow, for now,” Verdet said, leaning against the wall. “Ease him into it.” He gave a grisly smile. “And for every time he doesn’t answer, kick it up.” 

“How far, sir?” 

“Far as it takes.” 

Chapter 2

When Barney Ashley walked into the seemingly hundred-degree iron-bar cell that housed the prisoner, he was surprised to see that the hunched form didn’t immediately scurry for the corner like he normally did. That time, it took several seconds after the door had slammed shut for any sort of reaction to take place. 

The prisoner jerked into consciousness at the sound with blind fear. He lunged quickly toward the corner, operating only on instinct and pain, frantically crawl-running in rough and painful movements. He only knew that he had to get away. Had to move.  _ Now, fast _ . 

Both he and Ashley were surprised to find that the chain around his neck had been shortened when he hit the end of it hard, well and way before he should’ve. He was violently jerked backward and onto his side from the tremendous force on his bloody neck, and felt bones threaten to give as his back slammed hard into the unyielding floor. 

Groaning and coughing, the prisoner rolled and touched his forehead to the cold concrete of the floor and lay still, one hand moving to the leather collar locked around his throat, sounding as if he was breathing through a straw. 

“Whoa,” Ashley muttered, frowning in surprise. He stepped back toward the unlocked door and leaned out, calling to the nearby masked guards, “Hey, did either of you guys shortened up this chain?” 

One of them, taller and younger than the other, stepped toward Ashley with a puzzled look beneath his opaque black mask. “What? No. We’ve got orders not to go near him, sir.” 

Ashley frowned. “Well, thanks.” 

The guard nodded and turned away. 

Ashley shook his head slightly and turned, closing the door behind him as he went back into the cell. He walked slowly to the prisoner, still facedown on the floor, trying to wedge his fingers under the already too-tight collar. 

He was still really struggling to breathe. 

Ashley’s mouth twisted sympathetically and he knelt down next to him, grabbing the lock that held the torturous collar together. He pulled the keys out of his right pocket with his free hand and unsnapped the lock, gently easing it off. He winced as the man— _ thing _ , dammit—gave a sharp gasp of pain and a strangled moan. His breathing eased only a little, and he groaned again. 

“Easy,” Ashley murmured. “You’re alright.” 

He glanced down the prisoner’s ragged frame, astounded to find his ratty clothing stained with new blood. There was a smeared puddle of it in the center of the room where he’d been laying. 

Ashley gently shoved the prisoner back up onto his side and took in the pale face and shaking hands, the strong smell of fear and pain sweat. He pried the edge of the ragged shirt up to find a long, deep cut in the prisoner’s right side, deep and dark and oozing blood. An interrogation wound; and a specialty of Jimmy Verdet. 

“Uh-uh, oh no,” Ashley snarled. He watched the prisoner’s slack face show a delayed fear at his angry expression, and mentally kicked himself. “Hey,  _ hey _ , it’s alright,” he soothed, switching to a more friendly look. “I’m sorry this happened. Believe me, I won’t let it happen again.” 

He put a hand against the cut and put pressure on it, grimacing as the prisoner let out a pitifully frantic howl, low and long. 

He needed to look for more injuries. 

“Doing alright, sir?” the younger guard asked, looking through the door. 

“No,” Ashley growled. “Get me a med kit, now.” 

He gently rolled the prisoner to his stomach, mindful of the cut he knew about, and looked under his bloody shirt-back. 

He gagged and fell back, looking at the wall and pressing a fist hard to his mouth. 

“You . . . .  _ sure _ you’re alright, sir?” the other guard asked, his rubber-bullet gun aimed in the general direction of the prisoner’s form. 

Ashley started shaking his head, his face furious. His voice shook as he snarled, “No. No, I am not. Bring me Verdet. Now.” As the guard moved to turn away, Ashley glared and meaningfully added, “And bring Colonel Baridon with you.” 

The guard nodded sharply and backed away, trotting down the hallways out of sight. The first guard ran back in only moments after him, the bulky med kit in hand. He yanked the door open and skidded down next to Ashley and the prisoner, throwing the lid of the kit off. He handed the box of supplies to Ashley, then glanced down at the prisoner to see what had war- ranted such a command. 

His hand moved to his mouth, too, reflexively, feeling it stop at the black plastic that covered his face without realizing why. He grabbed the chin of the grinning-skull print mask and pried it off, revealing his pale, sweaty face. 

“Did . . . . did Verdet do this?” he asked quietly. 

Ashley glanced at him grimly. “Yes, and both he and Colonel Baridon are on their way down. Forget the med kit, it can’t even touch this.” He gave a weary smile, sleeving a drop of sweat from his forehead with the back of his bloody hand. “And get that mask back on, before they get here and you get into trouble. I promise I won’t tell on you.” 

The guard nodded and returned a nervous smile. “Thank you, sir.” 

He slid the hot mask back on his face, only his brown eyes visible beneath the big skull sticker and the tinted surface. 

As heavy footsteps sounded, he stood and darted outside the cell to his post, clicking his heels together just as his counterpart rounded the corner at a stiff walk. 

Behind him walked Jimmy Verdet and a tall, bearded man in dark fatigues. “Colonel” Baridon. 

The two men stalked past the guard as he held the cell door open and to Ashley, who stood and clasped his bloody hands behind him. He’d pulled the prisoner’s shirt back down. 

“What do you need, Barney?” Baridon asked, voice not friendly, but not exactly unfriendly either. It was his business tone, only used in serious situations. Or around people he didn’t like. And at that moment, walking with Verdet, it was both. 

“Sir,” Ashley began, being slightly cautious in his wording. “Did you authorize any . . . .  _ physical _ persuasion in interrogation?” 

“No.” Baridon’s eyes snapped like lightning. “Why?” 

Verdet’s mouth compressed with tense anticipation. 

Ashley nodded. “Well, then, sir, you should see this.” 

He knelt down and pulled the back of the ragged shirt up, revealing hideous burns, cuts almost like whip marks, and bruises that covered almost the entire bony back of the prisoner. 

Baridon looked on in shock for a moment, then swallowed down sour bile and demanded, “Who did this?” 

Verdet stepped closer, back straightening. “I did, sir.” 

“This is the work of three or more people,” Baridon interjected, glaring angrily at the man. “Who might they be?” 

“Men acting on my orders,” Verdet said cooly, staring straight ahead. “They had no willing part in it.” 

“Fine.” Baridon stepped back and studied Jimmy with revulsion. “Do you mind telling me why you did this, this . . . .  _ atrocity _ ?” 

Verdet merely said, “No excuse, sir.” 

“Damn a solid military man,” Baridon muttered, voice harsh. “My father always used to say that, because all you’ll get is  _ yes sir _ ,  _ no sir _ , or  _ no excuse, sir _ . Never real reasons.” He shook his head. “Verdet, you’re off this operation. Permanently. Any objections?” 

Verdet shook his head once. “No sir.” 

Baridon shook his head again in disgust and waved at the door. “You may go,  _ Captain _ . Do not let me see you again in this wing of the complex. Ever, and count yourself lucky that I didn’t just kill you.” 

Verdet nodded sharply, clicked his heels, and strode out, back stiff and feeling Baridon’s glare on him all the way. 

When Jimmy was finally out of sight, Baridon turned to Ashley and sighed, untensing. He knelt down with Barney next to the prisoner and put his hand gently on one of the cuts. 

The prisoner sharply sucked in a labored breath through his teeth and Baridon could feel him tremble slightly. He removed the hand and looked at the prisoner’s neck, noting the collar had rubbed the skin raw and badly chewed up the softer parts of his throat. There was blood splatter on the floor near his mouth. 

“We need to get him checked out with the medics, Barney,” he said grimly, chewing on his mustache. “He could be busted up inside, bleeding internally maybe.” 

“Yeah,” Ashley muttered, giving his friend a weary but genuine smile. “Thank you, Matt.”

Baridon returned it, then stood. “Fairfax, Webber,” he ordered, calling the guards by name. “Help the Major get this man to Doctor Marrix. Immediately, please." 

“‘Man,’ sir?” the older guard, Webber, asked prissily. 

Baridon sighed deeply, his long-lasting irritation finally showing through his normally calm façade. “ _ What-in-the-hell-ever _ , Webber.  _ Just goddamn  _ go.” 

Webber nodded and opened the cell door, holding it while Fairfax and Ashley picked the prisoner up and got an arm over their shoulders. Baridon watched them leave, then looked down at the chain and collar on the now blood-stained floor. 

He shook his head sadly and left, stepping on the leather collar as he walked out. 

Chapter 3

“He has glass pushed deep in his feet, some so deep that they’re alarming close to several arteries. There is internal bleeding in his lungs, just like the colonel suggested, and he’s nearly been killed from exhaustion.” Carrie Marrix showed the CT scan reports to Ashley, anger lacing through in her words. “I’m also seeing evidence of Bartter’s Syndrome, a kidney disorder that should  _ not _ be present in his system, leading me to believe it must have been caused by a massive amount of trauma. There’s retrograde blood flow and disruptions in the areas of his brain that I believe are the parietal, cerebellum, and temporal lobes. You might remember from middle school science class that those are the lobes that control language, coordination, and perception. It’s doubtful he’s understood a  _ single word _ for the past two months,  _ even _ if he already understood English before, which I would have considered only the minorest of possibilities.” 

“That’s not a  _ he _ , that’s an  _ it _ ,” Webber vexingly reminded from behind her. 

Marrix turned and glared at him with all her five-foot-one fury, and said firmly, “Shut your goddamn mouth, Webber, or I’ll find a way to have you thrown off this op. and you can go join your jackass buddy Verdet.” 

Webber wisely shut his mouth. 

“Good.” Marrix turned back to Ashley. “Now,  _ he _ ”—she glared again at Webber—“might recover from the retrograde. I know he’ll recover from the internal bleeding and the Bartter’s. Already he’s started healing from last night, faster than any human’s system could. From what I can tell, he’s even healing  _ slower _ than normal because of the disruptions in the brain and kidneys.” 

“Well,” Ashley muttered. “At least that won’t be a problem.” He put his hand to his mouth and rested his head weight against it. “Will he recover from the brain disruptions?” 

Marrix tilted her head and lifted her eyebrows, sighing as she tiredly shrugged and turned to one of the computer monitors with pictures of what looked reminiscent of a human brain, but slightly different, bigger in the front, more compressed in the back, and two fused-together brain stems. Lips compressed, Marrix circled a small red-colored area with her finger. “This is one of the disruptions. There are five other that are major, and dozens of small ones, scattered everywhere, mostly in the back. There are a few in the front, but the worst ones, near the back of the brain, were likely a result of severe head traumas. And I mean very, very severe.” 

“So, he’s gotten concussions over and over again that have impacted his brain,” Ashley muttered, completely to himself. He turned to Marrix and asked, “Has it affected his brain in a different way than it would ours?” 

“Well, I mean, yeah it had to’ve, but really I’m not finding that much that’s different. The same injury to a human would have had the same effects he’s been experiencing. Cognitive disabilities, vomiting, sensitivity to sound and light, ringing ears, blackouts, mood shifts. I know he’s been drug in here several times to see if one of the other doctors would diagnose him with a cold or the flu because of the same symptoms, but no one ever bothered to do a CT scan.” 

“So, you’re saying that it’s a serious TBI?” 

“Exactly. Multiple.” 

“Christ. How long?” 

She gave a small shrug. “The most recent’s been there under two months,  _ maybe _ made by one of Verdet’s men. I can’t exactly tell with the rest, they’re too severe.” She patted him on the shoulder. “He may have to relearn English—on the little chance he even knew it in the first place—and any other secondary languages he might have already spoken before this. He should be fine as he doesn’t sustain another head injury. There’s an extra lobe, almost, in his brain that will allow him to recover without us having to do any surgery. With it able to fully work without anyone adding more to the load, he should be able to run a marathon in a year.” 

Ashley chuckled and nodded. “Well, thank God for that. And thank you, Carrie.” 

She smiled and nodded. “Of course.” 

“What do we have to do to make sure he recovers?” 

“Well, first off,” she said, moving to the metal table where the prisoner lay, restrained and only barely conscious. He was still laboring hard to breathe. “He’s too weak from the fluid in his lungs to do anything, so keep any sort of restraints to an  _ absolute _ minimum. And make sure they won’t cut into him if he tries to move. You saw just as well as I what that’s done to his neck.” 

She unbuckled the cuffs bolting the prisoner down and rolled him onto his side. He breathed a bit easier, but immediately fell into unconsciousness. 

Ashley, after silencing the protesting Webber with a dark look, said, “Ok, what else?” 

“Try to keep him from being on his back or stomach as much as possible, not only for his breathing but also to make sure his wounds can heal. Putting him on a real bed or a cot will be necessary. He needs to always have water and food nearby, and I really  _ do _ mean always. His conscious patterns will be unpredictable and random. He will struggle to eat, so it should be soft or liquid, high in protein and vitamins. Someone may have to feed him, make sure he doesn’t degrade any further.” 

“Volunteering?” 

“Sure, I’d love to.” Marrix moved over slightly, hands on her hips. “Get me clearance, and get him into a good, warm room between sixty and seventy degrees. No more no less, like that damned cell you’ve had him in for the past two months that’s always either a hundred or negative twenty. And, at some point, he will need to be out in the sun quite a bit. Have you got all that?” 

“Yup,” Ashley tapped his head with a smile. “Right up here.” 

“Good, thank you. I may have more for you later, but for now, all I can say is to keep him comfortable and to leave him alone until he’s completely healed. He’s hurt too badly to be questioned, and I doubt he’d understand it anyway.” 

“How long should it take for him to heal?” 

“Humans can take upwards of six months to heal from a minor TBI, if they ever do. Because of his advanced healing speed, I can guess maybe a year at minimum, if he was healing normally. Because he has more than one  _ major _ TBI, I’m absolutely demanding eighteen months of healing before any questioning or changes for safety, and  _ highly _ recommend a full two and a half years just to be sure he doesn’t regress and will adapt. I’ll send a report to Colonel Baridon with all of that in it, but I’m confident he’ll approve.” 

“I know he will,” Ashley said briefly. He gestured to the prisoner. “How long will you want him here?” 

“I’ll have him moved to another room, but give me a couple of days, and we’ll see where he’s at. If he’s showing progress I’ll release him to you, as long as you let him stay where I’ve put him. I’ll have to keep him a bit longer if you won’t do that, or if he isn’t improving.” 

“Deal.” Ashley shook her hand and smiled, dropping several years from his face. 

He and Webber helped move the prisoner into an observatory room with a comfortable bed against the back wall and a outside-locking door, arranging him to be on his right side, facing the two-way glass and the door next to it. 

Marrix waited until they were finished to inject two biodegradable capsules under the prisoner’s skin in his left arm, noting its dirtiness and deciding that he would also need to be bathed at some point. Each capsule was embedded with technology to monitor his healing progress throughout the coming days, and to make sure he’d survive without access to immediate medical help. When they were finished using the capsules, their defenses against bodily acids would dissipate and the entire capsule would dissolve harmlessly. No clean-up required. 

Webber left the room right after Ashley, but Marrix knew that the guard would be less than six feet from the door. Fairfax would probably soon join him. 

Barney, she figured, was probably writing up a report to give to the Colonel, if he didn’t tell the man personally. They seemed close, she figured they probably used to be childhood buddies or something like that. Both Ashley and Baridon struck her as sentimental types. 

Marrix turned to look back at the prisoner just before she opened the door, and was shocked to see him staring at her. His bright silver eyes were highly puzzled. 

“Hey,” she said softly, turning back. 

His eyes flickered, slightly, and she took a step toward him, right hand slightly held out in what she hoped was reassuring. 

His eyes went fearful and he squirmed, right arm going out weakly as if he was trying to stop her or protect himself. Whichever it came to. 

“Zkic . . . . thaoza, zkic,” he panted, groaning at each word. “Th— thaoza, mi. Fim’k.” 

“It’s alright,” Marrix breathed. She stopped and kneeled on the floor slowly, watching his eyes follow her. They were surprisingly alert. “I won’t hurt you.” 

He seemed to relax slightly, and his hand went limp. “Mi niwa, Y fim’k unig omeinyen.” 

“Uh-huh,” Marrix muttered, using her left hand to start a recording on her phone. She hated to scare him, but moved a little bit closer. She had to. 

“Mi, mi,” he croaked, struggling to move, drag himself away. He was too weak to stay up on only his arms, but was too terrified to slump back. “Thaoza, Y fim’k unig omienyn, mienyen. Thaoza, fim’k ki enyz. Y . . . . Y ohwioge kihg aie avawaenyen Y unig, Y fim’k wovi omienyen ahzy. Thaoza, mi niwa.” 

Grimacing because she knew the pain she was causing, Marrix stepped even closer, into touching distance. 

The prisoner was panicking, and she almost feared he might try to hurt her, but he curled his left hand to his chest, and his right up and over his face, to protect it. He was rambling, even in the language she didn’t recog- nize. He was trying to make himself smaller, be less of a threat or a target, his eyes bright with terror. 

“Y wovi mienyen, mienyen. Na kuon loz ogomwamat na. Y on kowha o zhovi, mig. Mienyen nigy enom o zhovi. Y zovi mienyen giwen enayen ki koti enyz goe. Thaoza, Y fim’k wovi oma egio ahok aie homk lwin no, hezk thaoza, thaoza.” He was pleading, she realized. “Thaoza, Y wovi mienyen ki dovi aie.” 

He was struggling more and more to breath, his panting exhausted and strained, eyes wild in fear and getting worse by the moment. 

Marrix ended the recording and backed off, moving until she felt the door handle against her spine. She watched the prisoner slump in relief, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut. He must be feeling horrific pain, she thought, from the wild struggle he had tried to put up to get away. 

He never attacked, she mused thoughtfully, just tried to get away. 

Frowning to herself, she left the room and walked back to her office, not nodding to Webber when he nodded to her. 

She was still angry at him. He was an ass, though, so he deserved it. 

She sat in her desk chair and plugged her phone into a computer outlet, pulling up the audio recording and listening to it. After about five times, she began to estimate a few words, sadly discerning “please,” “don’t,” and “no.” Some of the words must have been nothing other than aimless babbling, but “I,” “you,” and “me” weren’t difficult to determine. 

She inserted the audio recording into a program her old branch in the government had used to translate little known languages, not sure if it would actually work. To her shock, the program stated that the language was based on what English was based upon—they were the same except for sounding differently. 

She worked at the audio for several hours with renewed vigor at the news. She mapped out his words until her eyes burned and she couldn’t stop yawning. 

The clock at the far right side of her desk read three-seventeen am. 

Marrix growled a small curse and unplugged her phone, throwing it into the bag that sat by her feet. She rubbed her temples with her fingers and sighed, eyes closed. Marrix sighed and got up slowly, feeling the all too well known weight of exhaustion settle on her body. The kind that made it feel difficult to breath. 

She took a look around, saw the lab empty, and assumed that everyone else had already gone to their rooms for some much-needed rest. She flipped out the lights and locked up, so tired she couldn’t wait to travel the short distance to her room and get into a warm bed. 

She could finish translating the recording tomorrow. 

* * * * *

“I won’t hurt you,” Marrix said quietly, in his language. She had practised for hours to get the pronunciation correct. 

The prisoner only curled into himself more, clenching his good arm firmly over his face. It had only terrified him, she was loathe to realize. “No, no, it’s alright . . . . it’s ok.” 

“Aie ogomwamat ny em Vihghum-Zoklewo ki  _ woy _ . Fim’k . . . . fim’k kuhh ny aie gim’k lewk ny.” His strained voice trailed off and he heaved for air. It was rasping and sounded as though he almost couldn’t breath at all. “Du . . . . ogoa . . . . ” 

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” she muttered, not quite understanding the fast-paced words. 

The prisoner merely gave a small shake of his head and closed his eyes. 

He was too exhausted and in too much pain to do anything else, but Marrix left the room feeling mostly victorious. 

She felt she finally had the last of the alphabet. She could finally break the code. 

Chapter 4

“How’s he doing?” Baridon asked, downing his shot of bourbon and pouring himself another, three fingers high. 

Ashley eased his weight in the leather armchair, staring at Baridon across the desk and toying with his own shot glass. He had only taken a sip of it. “He’s making some progress. Most of it is,” he paused to wave his hand and the glass in a circle-pattern a few times, “superficial. His brain is still only slowly healing. Mercifully, his back has mostly pieced back together and hasn’t picked up any sort of infection.” 

“Marrix reported that she’s figured out the only language he seems to understand and speak. Have you gotten a chance to check up on it?” This time, Baridon only sipped at the expensive bourbon. 

Ashley shrugged, his mouth twisting. He bounced his knee up and down a couple of times. “Not yet. I’m still busy okaying reports, army and medical. That little dustup down in Arizona cost us big time.” 

Baridon sighed, eyebrows going up. He plainly disliked the topic. “Yeah. It did.” He shook his head and downed the last of the bourbon. “No matter right now. What do you know about this language?” 

Ashley gave a vague smile. He tossed back his liquor, too, and denied a second. 

“I know that it’s based on English, or at least is rooted in whatever Marrix said English is. Spelling and grammar are the same, the letter sounds are just different. Carrie figured out where most of them go, and has talked to him using what she knows.” 

Baridon perked up slightly, interested. “Has she, now. How did it go?” 

Ashley looked down and quirked his face. “Oh, not very well. For now. His brain hasn’t healed well enough to really process what’s happening to him. He’s terrified. Probably reliving whatever bad memories he has in this place.” 

“Great.” Baridon leaned back in his chair with a slight sigh, easing his spine. “You know, we have got to come up with something better than ‘he’ as a name.” 

“You saw the tattoos,” Ashley said, pouncing on the subject eagerly. This he enjoyed. “They have to have some significance.” 

Baridon nodded. “Put tech to work. Get me a name, within the hour, preferably.” His eyes, tired and scored with bags from an almost constant lack of sleep, moved to the clock on the wall behind Ashley. It’s hour hand was on the three. He gave a small, halting smile. “Actually, Barney, go on to your quarters. It’ll wait until later this morning. Get a few hours of sleep.” 

“And you?” Ashley asked, giving him a small smile. 

“I’ll be here.” 

“Of course you will.” Ashley stood. “Alright. I’ll see you ‘later in the morning,’ then.” 

* * * * * 

The prisoner woke slowly, numbly. Something had changed, that he was sure of. 

After a few minutes, he opened his eyes as small as possible and look- ed down, surprised to see his skin was no longer grimy, and he was wearing different, clean clothing. 

“Hey,” a soft voice said. “Are you feeling better?” 

“Yes,” the prisoner was surprised to hear himself say as he looked at the woman, his voice pinched and gravely. 

He sounded like he hadn’t had water in days, and felt like it, too, but didn’t feel an overwhelming amount of anxiety clawing at his chest and throat. A welcome relief from his past decade. 

The female seemed to be able to guess he was thirsty and approached him with a glass, gently lifting his head to help him drink. He was too weak to move much by himself. 

“Thank you,” he breathed, letting the water trickle down his tortured throat. It was almost the best he’d ever tasted. 

“You’re welcome,” she said, setting the glass on a table a few feet away. “How’s your back?” 

The prisoner, strengthened with the water, struggled to a faintly sitting up position, groaning slightly with the effort. “Better . . . . than before.” 

“You’ve had a fever for the past couple of days,” she said quietly. She was still afraid of spooking him. 

“‘Fever?’” the prisoner asked hoarsely, almost stumbling over it. “What is ‘fever?’” 

“Erm,” Marrix stumbled for a moment. She was understanding his words from a translating earpiece, T.E., but until she built one for him, too, she herself hadn’t learned how to speak very much and the question was unexpected. “I can’t . . . . explain right now?” 

The prisoner nodded slightly, and she figured that meant she said it correctly. 

“You are . . . . still learning this . . . . language?” he breathed, some faint interest showing in his grey eyes. 

“Yes,” she said eagerly. 

“Who . . . . are you?” 

“My name is Carrie. What’s yours?” 

The prisoner hesitated a long moment. “Tap.” 

Marrix smiled, unnerving Tap. He dryly said, “You are . . . . a  _ human _ .” 

_ Human _ , Marrix was surprised to hear. Tap’s race, or at least someone around him in the Universe,  _ knew _ about humans. And based on the connotation, they must not have a great reputation. 

“Yes, I am.” She paused a second, then continued. “What are you?” 

“I am . . . . a  _ Zoklew _ ,” Tap said quietly, plainly having to wrack his brain for the information. 

“How long have you been held prisoner, Tap?” she asked softly. 

For a moment he thought, then finally shook his head, his exhaustion showing through in the lolling of the movement. “I don’t know. I’m . . . . very tired.” 

Marrix smiled softly, compassionately. “Alright. We can talk more later, then.” 

She backed out of the door, his eyes following her for a moment, and then finally closing. 

Chapter 5

“Hold out your hands, please.” 

Slowly, with pain, his right hand came up, then after a moment of struggle the left followed. 

Marrix unwrapped the bandages from both, hesitating every time Tap drew a sharp breath of pain when the cloth that had clotted to the cuts ripped free. As slowly as she had to go, it was several minutes before both hands again saw the world. 

They were cold and clammy to the touch from lack of air, and Merrix mused,  _ we aren’t really that different _ . 

There were six gashes across Tap’s left hand and five on his right. Whichever of Verdet’s men had done it, he had used most of his strength to make them, each slice visibly displaying the layers where skin met meat and tendon. The tendons also appeared to be made up of elastic-like bone, not tensionous tissues. 

Greyish-blue blood—another of the bigger differences between them —had matted across his palms and Marrix had one of her assistants retrieve a bowl of hot water and a rag. 

When she held his wrist and eased his left hand into the foreign warmth, Tap jumped and tried to pull his arm back, but shooting pain in his shoulder joint stopped him cold. 

It had only happened the night before, during a bad dream or memory. He had thrashed around bad enough to dislocate it himself from sheer press- ure and force. 

P.T.S.S. and shallow shoulder joints appeared to also transcend the uniquity of a singular race or species. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Marrix soothed. “It’s just water to wash the blood off.” She had made an T.E. for him, now, and for everyone else that had to have direct contact with him. Meaning just her, Barney, and a proto for Baridon, so far. 

Tap swallowed, then nodded for her to continue, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth. 

As his lean fingers connected again with the liquid, a shiver and a half sob ran through him, but he didn’t try to pull his arm back again. His jaw muscles jumped when he again had to restrain the impulse as the rag began to rub at his palm. 

Ashley was watching from a corner, marvelling at how Marrix had managed to take the bloody, snarling thing he’d grown accustomed to and almost transform him into something workable. 

He frowned at the unintended thought, looking angrily at his feet. 

“What are you?” 

Barney quickly glanced up, staring in surprise at ‘Tap.’ “What d’you mean?” 

“You are . . . .” Tap struggled to find the right words. “You are not  _ mercenera _ , but . . . . not . . . .  _ organized _ military?” He shook his head sharply, trying to shake loose the cobwebs, as it were, find the right words to explain what he wanted to say. “There, there is no . . . . how is it . . . .” he let out a string of frustrated, untranslating curses. “ _ Eaiyr Joctiscel _ .  _ Government _ , you are not under a  _ government _ .” 

Barney and Marrix exchanged looks. “Say,” Barney said slowly. “That’s pretty good. I’m guessing you were—are—a soldier, right? I’d wager one of high rank and skill, too.” 

Tap’s eyes pinched slightly. “Yes.” 

“Is that why you’re . . . . here?” 

“Yes. My captors wanted information. And revenge.” 

“Did . . . . did they get any?” 

“Revenge, yes. Information, I don’t know. I can’t recall most of it.” 

“You’ve been reliving it for a few weeks.” 

“I have. There are still gaps. Large ones.” 

“There were head traumas.” 

“Yes. I feel that there may be years of my captivity that I have no memory of.” He gave a small shrug, then winced at the pain that shot from his shoulder. “But they were bloody, and I’d rather not have them.” 

“Who had you?” 

“Many different groups.  _ Mercenera _ , mostly. I can’t even picture the first few. All of them with grudges to settle against me or mine.” 

“Yours?” 

“A military group. Some of the best.” Tap studied the doubting exp- ression on Barney’s face. “I only tell you because it’s been many years, and even if they’ve stopped searching, they will have changed anything I would have had access to. My return to them was always impossible, and now even more unlikely.” 

Barney nodded. “Because humans don’t have any long range spacefaring capability. Yet, anyway.” 

“Exactly.” Tap’s mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. “There’s doubtlessly almost nothing worth going back to, anyway. It’s been too long, and time is the final judge. Often the cruelest one.” 

“Wisdom that exceeds all of our differences,” Barney muttered, adding, “Among other things.” 

Marrix had just finished stitching his hands when the Major strode in, face cloudy and irritated. 

He planted his feet in a way that said he’d brook no interference with his coming statement and firmly ordered, “Finish cleaning him up, Marrix, and then cuff him. He’s moving to a new facility.” 

Marrix let her jaw hang for a moment, then sputtered, “Excuse me?” 

The Major glared. “You heard me. This is an order directly from the Hawk, we no longer have custody. Get him ready to travel within half-an-hour, minimum restraints.” 

“W-where to?” 

Baridon just glared harder at her. 

Marrix sighed. “Let me guess, a blacklisted, tell-me-and-you’ll-have-to-kill-me, type of place?” 

Baridon nodded once. “That’s a direct order, doctor. Best get moving.” 

Tap said something rapid-fire to Marrix, who turned and translated, “Restraints won’t be necessary, he’ll come along peacefully.” 

Baridon snorted and addressed Tap. “I appreciate it, but my superiors wouldn’t. It’s either cuffs or it’s chains, take your pick.” 

Tap sat back with a soft scowl on his face. It was clear he was still very much a prisoner and subject to his captor’s every whim. 

“Hurry, Marrix,” Baridon said as he stalked out, Barney following him with a harried frown. 

Chapter 6

They’d had no idea the transport would be hijacked, all of the others killed. 

A black bag had been shoved over his head, and Tap could feel his breath dampening the material, making it hot and uncomfortable. His lungs quickly started begging for fresh air. 

That, however, became the least of his priorities as he felt a sharp pain against his shoulder, near his neck. The sound of ripping material followed, and with it, the feel of a knife point dragging down his skin, all the way to the end of the shirt, drawing beads of blood the whole length down. He barely blinked against the faint pain, and the lack of response obviously angered his new captor. 

The human—and by that point Tap was positive that it was indeed another human—gave a quiet growl and tore the tattered remnants of Tap’s shirt off his body before very slowly and purposefully shoving his knife deep into Tap’s already well-scarred back. 

Even as he let out an involuntary hiss, Tap felt the weapon bite into the bone of his shoulder blade and even penetrate slightly into it, making him growl. 

“Dirty, stinkin’ alien,” the human spat, voice tinged with raw anger. “There’s already enough garbage on Earth without you comin’ here and makin’ the battle for supremacy even harder for good, white people. But I got ahold of you for now, so you gonna learn. Your. Place.” 

With maddening slowness and care, he began to carve down. 

Tap bucked against him in pain and tried to strike out blindly with his tied feet, slipping and falling from the stool and slamming painfully into the floor. The human slammed something into his head, probably a gun, and brutally kicked him against the wall of the big transport vehicle. He and another human drug Tap back onto the stool, the second one grabbing Tap around the neck with his right arm in such a way that he could break the vertebrae if he wanted to, just by slightly tightening his forearm. 

The first human landed another savage blow in Tap’s side, just below the ribs, and then resumed carving. He made the swastika big, in blocks, and sliced down into a good half-inch of meat and skin inside each of the lines. Blood welled and was quickly everywhere. 

Tap, though he tried, couldn’t stop the screams and gasps that pushed acidly against his teeth from slipping over his tongue. 

When the human had finally,  _ finally _ finished, he pressed a rag against the gaping wound and calmly tore strips of duct-tape to bind it crudely in place. 

The second human threw the trembling Tap into the side of the van, who slammed hard into the metal before collapsing almost bonelessly to the floor, panting and groaning. He was hopelessly, carelessly, wishing for death in that excruciating moment. 

“Alright, here’s how this is gonna play out,” the first human said, crouching next to Tap, yanking the hood off and immediately punching him in the face. “You’re gonna be my own little personal example-maker, got it? Hell, you dark enough to pass for one of those black heathens, ain’tcha? So, you’re gonna be my pet, and you’re gonna obey me and call me master, just like them. I’ll teach you good.” 

Tap, grimacing against the spinning of his head and the wobbily appearance of the world, managed to spit at him. The next moment his head was connecting with the floor and more blood, blue-looking, oozed from his nose. 

“You’re one stubborn S.O.B., I’ll give you that,” the human said. His foot drove into Tap’s stomach and slammed him painfully into the paneling again, Tap’s breath leaving him in what was either a grunt or a sob. “And so help me God, I’ll beat that meanness out of you if I have to.” He punctuated the statement with another kick to the chest that drove all of the air from Tap’s lungs and brought vomit up. 

The human moved back to his seat as Tap gagged and choked, dark blue blood and yellow froth drizzling from his open, mangled mouth and nose. 

The second human roughly plucked Tap off the floor and shoved the bag back over his head, trapping Tap with the rancid smell of blood and bile. 

They hadn’t found the small translator in his right ear and he doubted they’d remove it if they had, seeing as it was the only way he could understand them. As he was secured back into a seat, Tap could feel his muscles still involuntarily trembling and silently cursed his weakness. 

Unable to prevent his head from falling forward, Tap stared at the blood pooling in the hood until everything faded to a blissful black. 

* * * * *

He was kneeling in a swirling, flat grey mist, no objects, horizon, or sky to gauge distance upon. 

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, Tap bowed his head and summoned the most strength he’d had in years, finally raising it as another figure began to form from the malleable mist. 

“Daxen,” he quavered, dipping his head to the scarred male. 

“ _ Tap _ ?” Daxen said in surprise. His eyes moved to Tap’s naked, bloody chest, showing horror and anger. “ _ Where are you _ ?” 

“The human planet, b-268-en-490-sg-763.” 

Daxen caught his breath and nodded, taking some of the connection from his weak friend, and some of its strain as a result. “Of course. The hot zone.” His gaze took on fiery intensity. “Don’t worry, we’ll be coming.” 

“Of course,” Tap said back, voice breaking. 

Daxen saw Tap seemed to take some needed reassurance in his heated statement, and he repeated, “ _We’re_ _coming_ , old friend.” 

Tap again had to choke back tears and rasped, “Yes. The short-range tracker is still operational.” Even with Daxen holding some of the effort, the conversation had visibly started taking its toll on Tap, paling his features and making him shake. 

Daxen smiled comfortingly, compromising to end as quickly as possible. “Good, I’ll see you soon.” 

He waved and whirled back into the mist. 

Chapter 8

Tap woke from a harsh kick to his side, a voice commanding, “Get up.” 

With great effort, he rolled onto his stomach and got his knees and legs under him, forcing his aching muscles to respond as he obediently moved upward, still blinded by the black bag. 

There was little left to do now, except wait for Daxen and the rest of the team, who were in fact far more alive than he’d alluded to when ques- tioned by Ashley. Tap knew all he had to do was be patient, cooperate, and suffer as little as possible until rescue came. 

Staggering onto his feet, Tap was shoved forward and, for a heart wrenching moment, into empty air. There was a bone-jarring impact as his legs connected with the ground and, as he sank to his knees, he correctly surmised he was out of the transportation vehicle. 

“Keep moving,” his guard snarled, jabbing him in the back with the toe of his boot before grabbing his left arm and boosting him up. 

The human shoved Tap along, the sharp poke of a weapon muzzle in his back serving to keep him obedient. 

Tap’s senses were trying to sort out his surroundings, but the bag imp- aired more than just his vision. There were no smell or taste beyond that of blood and vomit, and his senses of hearing and touch, when muffled, were only subpar at best, still healing. 

The guard suddenly jerked him to a stop and Tap had to weave sharply to maintain his balance, again trying to reach his senses out to feel any less vulnerable. 

The sudden stiffening of the guard betrayed the coming blow at the last second and Tap instinctively threw his body to the side. As a result, the butt of the gun only grazed his sunken midriff but whipped past and sunk deeply into that of the guard’s. 

As the man’s breath exploded from him and he dropped to the ground, he and whoever held the gun cursed deeply. 

Tap did not have the time to dodge the second blow, this one aimed directly for the side of his head. He was not aware of falling, only that he had crumpled like wet paper and was laying in the dirt, ears ringing and blood dripping into his eyes. 

He thought for a moment that the translator had been damaged, because the human’s angry words faded in and out of static, only some of them understandable. As the ringing of his head diminished, however, the man’s words came in fine. 

Tap couldn’t believe the wave of relief he felt. 

“You piece of shit! Make me look like a fool, will you?! I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll not soon forget, damn you!” 

A boot slammed hard into his ribs, and Tap grunted and curled awkwardly, desperately trying to protect his head and abdomen despite having his hands tied behind his back. He used the brief opportunity to shake the bag from his head, savoring the fresh air but not the stabbing brightness. 

The human was readying to kick him again when a voice yelled, “Wait dammit!” 

The human turned angrily, yelling back, “What, Hugh? He made me look stupid!” 

Hugh, the human who had carved the strange symbol into his back. 

Tap’s eyes fought open and a soundless snarl unintentionally found his face. 

Hugh laughed. “He don’t need help you look dumb, Chris, you do it well enough on your own.” His jauntiness abruptly faded and he growled, “Now back off.” 

* * * * *

They tied him back-down across a high stump, feet secured to the ground and arms lashed spread-eagle in a position that demanded impossible agony from his spine. They spat on him then left him in the boiling sun for over an hour. The ungainly position made breathing difficult, and that only increased as the sun beat down harder and harder each minute. 

“Chris” came over after a while, glaring at him and muttering promises of painful torture the  _ moment  _ he stepped out of line. 

Tap had ignored him, so Chris punched him in the bruised stomach, not holding back. 

The pain made Tap’s muscles try to bunch, straining his body against the restraints and the stump as he gargled on a sudden mouthful of blood. Coughing in crazed fear to clear his airways, he could vaguely hear Chris laughing at him and stomping away, kicking his foot one final time. 

Slowly calming, Tap threw his head to the side and let the blood drain away, feeling it trickle down other parts of his face, too. His stomach in turmoil, he breathed through the pain and felt his muscles begin to finally relax. He could feel the sun cooking him, hardening the blood and dirt on his bare face and chest. 

Still uncontrollably gasping once in a while, he settled back down and focused on calculating how long it would take his team to rescue him. 

He hadn’t yet arrived at any concrete number before the humans came back and cut him loose. 

He collapsed loosely to the ground, just realising how much energy their sun had sapped from him. One of the humans kicked him to his feet and shoved another bag on his head. 

Sudden shifts of lighting all had all but permanently blinded him in the past, and this time felt no different. 

They drug him off, Tap’s legs about refusing to cooperate and his starved body unable to put up resistance. 

One of the humans suddenly kicked the back of his knee and forced him down, ripping the bag off and severely damaging Tap’s vision again. 

When his eyes had finally cleared, Tap saw Hugh standing in front of him, grinning cruelly. “Enjoying our hospitality so far?” 

Hearing the words, understandable in one ear and only gibberish in the other, threw Tap off more than he’d like to admit, and he didn’t have the presence of mind to answer. 

Hugh slapped him, opening up another wound in his mouth. “I asked a question, dammit, and you will answer me.” 

Tap, fumbling for the human term for a long moment, eventually gave up and mumbled, “ _ Mi _ .” 

Hugh slapped him again, this time harder. “ _ English _ , goddamn you.” 

Tap, suppressing a growl, merely gave him a weary shrug. 

Hugh glowered down at him. “‘Course you don’t know a damn word of English. Whatever.” He crouched down and seized Tap’s jaw, forcefully making him look at a group of dark-skinned humans, receiving what looked like a vicious beating. 

“Look there, that’s your future,” Hugh growled, smirking. “So don't get too comfortable with this routine.” 

If Tap would have laughed if he could’ve. Instead he gave a choked wheeze and silently cursed his weak body. 

After staring at him for a painfully long time, Hugh finally released his jaws and knocked Tap into the dirt. 

Tap vaguely heard him say, “Chain him outside tonight. It’ll get bloody cold and take some of the damnable fight out of him.” 

And they drug him back to the stump. This time, however, he was freezing. There was no chance of healing sleep in such conditions, so he suffered through the long night in misery, fairly trembling in anger. 

It was a very long night. 

* * * * *

The heart attack came after sunrise, when the excessive wave change of heat washed over him. It threw his internal regulations into crazed failure, and darkness shortly followed. 

Resuscitation was the worst part, by far, given that it wasn’t performed with even a modicum of gentleness or accuracy. And because he’d been brought back the hard way before, it made it all the worse. 

Coming back from abject death was unpleasant in the best of circumstances, but now, it was sheer torture. But he was alive. 

* * * * *

A hand closed around his bruised throat. “What’s your name?” 

Struggling to breathe, thoroughly-beaten Tap just told him the truth. “Tap.” 

Hugh leered at him. “Alright,  _ Tap _ , what do you think you’re here for?” 

Tap wheezed through a laugh, and rasped the only two words he knew that fit. “Information. Revenge.” 

Hugh just shook him again by his grip on his throat. “Really? Well that’s certainly much more optimistic than the truth. You’re here to be worked and made an example of until you die, which I assure you will not be a pleasant experience.” 

Tap glared at him, and spat some curse in his foreign language with considerable heat. Hugh’s fist connected with his face with stunning force. 

“You get this through your thick skull,” Hugh snapped, shaking him slightly. “You’re my  _ pet _ , my  _ servant _ , and I will break you into it if I have to, but you now live to serve me, understand?” 

Tap nodded faintly, lips beginning to turn colors from lack of air. 

Hugh roughly tightened his grip, making more colors flash across Tap’s vision, and hissed, “I will not tell you again to use your words,  _ Tap _ .” 

Tap’s eyes were burning with hate. “Ye-yes.” 

“Better.” Hugh released him and watched him cough and choke for a moment. “And another thing, if you  _ ever _ speak in that language again, I’ll have one of my men start carving on you like I did, but this time it won’t be as fast or as well-medicated. Understand?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good boy.” He watched Tap’s cringe with mild interest, then loosen- ed a short stock-whip from his belt. “Now, onto that training.” 

Tap’s eyes snapped immediately to the weapon and his face visibly paled. His breath became fast, soft hiccups of sound. 

Enthralled, Hugh flicked the whip at him experimentally. 

Tap jumped but didn’t bolt, chest heaving and eyes squeezing shut. He was whispering under his breath, Hugh realised, and leaned closer to hear. “ _ Thaoza. Thaoza, fim’k. Thaoza _ .” 

Hugh grabbed him round the jaw and wrenched his face up, Tap’s feat- ures still scrunched in terror. “What?”

Tap merely whimpered. 

Hugh booted him hard enough to make him focus then sneered, “I said that I wouldn’t tell you again to speak, and in English.” 

Tap’s eyes flashed open. This was not going well. “Pl-please, please, good. I . . . . good.” 

“What, you’ll be good?” Hugh laughed. “You’ll be a _good_ _boy_ for your master? Say it.” 

Tap looked down. That wasn’t what he’d meant. 

Hugh punched him, hard. “Say it.” His eyes lit up. “Or I’ll drag one of those skinny little boys over here and torture him to death right here.” 

“I-” Tap collected himself and quickly forced the rest out. “Be a good . . . . boy, Mas’r.” 

Hugh grinned in multiple levels of triumph. He patronizingly ruffled Tap’s hair, displacing several scabs on his scalp. 

All the better, he wasn’t doing it for comfort. 

For a moment he almost thought Tap would lunge at him, then his shoulders slumped and he looked away. 

He was far from breaking, but this, this would be a fun challenge. Well, not for Tap, but for him it would be. 

* * * * *

Hugh tapped the side of his tea cup with a spoon, directing Tap a look. 

Tap, his right eye swollen completely shut along with various other bruises, caught the look and begrudgingly refilled the man’s--his  _ master’s _ \--cup. 

“Thank you, Tappan,” Hugh droned pretentiously. He looked to his guests, two well-dressed and effeminate women. “More tea?” 

“No, thank you,” the younger one, Jen, muttered, directing a discreet smile at Hugh--he couldn’t tell that it barely concealed her disgust. 

“Of course!” the other smiled. 

Tap barely caught the cue and obeyed before punishment could be enforced. 

Hugh gave Tap a transparent smile. “Good boy,  _ Tap _ .” 

One of his men came up the steps to the open veranda and knelt next to him, mumbling into his ear. 

Hugh nodded and shoved back from the table, directing them a flippant smile. “Please pardon the interruption, ladies, but I have urgent business to attend to. I’ll be back shortly.” 

As he walked away, Allie smiled and gave a discreet look at Tap. “Oh, see how kind he is? Even a king wouldn’t even know the names of all his subjects!” 

Jen frowned deeply and shot back, “But a master knows the names of all his pets, doesn’t he?” 

Tap caught only a few of the whispered words, but they were enough to set his heart hammering in fear. 

Jen turned to look at him, and he quickly averted his eyes. He’d almost lost the right one for not doing so in the past. 

“Are you alright?” Jen asked slowly, trying to catch his gaze. 

Tap bowed his head even further to avoid it, mumbling a quick, “Yes.”


End file.
